


The Liars

by manic_intent



Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, That AU where Santino doesn't send a death squad after John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-23
Updated: 2019-08-23
Packaged: 2020-09-25 00:37:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20367745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manic_intent/pseuds/manic_intent
Summary: Beyond Helen, John was not used to lying. Until the day of her death, he had been grateful that she never asked deeper questions about his tattoos, about the way he habitually watched the shadows, about how he always chose to sit in a restaurant with his back to the wall and within view of the exits, about how he refused to travel. Because of his lies, they lived a staged life drawn in uneven acts.





	The Liars

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Atanih88](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atanih88/gifts).

> For Atanih88, who asked for John Wick/Santino, John walks away without killing Santino, and Santino is curious. 
> 
> I’ve written a few stories where John walks away at the last possible moment, but I haven’t written one where both of them use more of their brain (aka Santino doesn’t call that incredibly wtf hit on John right after John kills Gianna). Enjoy.

On the day of his wedding to Helen, John had felt like a fraud. 

John had still been limping when he’d taken his place beside the priest and waited for Helen’s father to walk her down the aisle, limping from injuries sustained during the Task that John had blamed on a car accident. Helen had made sympathetic noises during their wedding night when John had stripped down for the first time before her since the Task, and she’d seen his new scars. She did not question him about them, even though the stippled pockmarks on his flank and the poorly healing gashes could not have come from a car. Helen had listened to John’s mumbled lies and eaten them whole, looked at the violent evidence of his life and had chosen to unsee it. John had loved her for that, as much as he could love anyone. 

Beyond Helen, John was not used to lying. Until the day of her death, he had been grateful that she never asked deeper questions about his tattoos, about the way he habitually watched the shadows, about how he always chose to sit in a restaurant with his back to the wall and within view of the exits, about how he refused to travel. Because of his lies, they lived a staged life drawn in uneven acts. John hoped he made her happy before the end, but even that happiness was built on unsteady ground. There was no escaping the weight of the life he had lived on his soul. Death bought death. Not even the deaths of three powerful men could buy life, only temporary abeyance. 

John knew that and more. He did not fear death—that fear was quickly beaten out of anyone growing up in the Director’s Company. He used to fear being unmoored. Torn from Helen, somehow, through rejection or death. Now that the unmooring had happened in such an absolute way, it was somehow cathartic. The explosion had burned the last of his lies to ash, and there was nothing left of John save for the life he had tried to escape. John sat tiredly on the burnt couch in the skeleton of the house and ran his hand over his face as Dog rested his head on John’s knee, waiting with trusting eyes. The air smelled thick with the promise of rain. 

His phone rang against his thigh. John ignored it. He slept curled on the couch with Dog whining at his feet. 

John woke to Dog huffing excitedly as something tinkled. He opened his eyes and stared blankly as Ares set a small paper plate of kibble down before Dog. Her expression remained carefully blank as Dog ate, though she tracked John carefully as he sat up. “You’ve come to kill me?” John asked. 

Ares raised an eyebrow and didn’t deign to answer. John got the gist. If Ares had wanted to kill him, she would’ve shot him in his sleep. John didn’t ask her what she wanted, but when Dog finished eating, and she beckoned for John to follow, he got unsteadily to his feet. Adrift, all places were now the same.

#

John was not taken to the museum. Ares drove him to an elegant boxy mansion within a manicured estate; a limpid pool etched between ranks of hedges and trees. Security watched them from the roof and from hidden posts behind the hedges, a kill zone that would’ve been difficult but not impossible to penetrate. This had to be Santino’s house. John no longer cared. He followed Ares out of the Audi and into the glass-fronted foyer and living space of the mansion.

Two big furry shapes uncurled from before the fireplace and trotted over, ears pricked up and long tails wagging as they glanced at Ares. At first glance, John would’ve placed the dogs as small grey and white wolves, with the same thick bristly pelts and long muzzles. Their heads came up to his waist. They inspected John and Dog without approaching until Ares made some gesture that had them padding over, politely sniffing at Dog and at John’s hands. She inclined her head at John and left through the front door. After a moment, the Audi accelerated back through the driveway, twisting out of sight behind the hedges. 

Puzzled, John stared at the dogs, and they stared back. He tried to tickle the closest behind its ears, and it backed off out of reach. Both wore black leather collars with brass buckles near-buried under their fur. The other dog deigned to allow John a pat, solemnly licking his palms. When Santino finally returned, John was sitting by the fireplace with the dogs, watching the fire.

Santino chuckled as his dogs charged him, wagging their tails excitedly as they danced eagerly around him. He stroked the cheek of the smaller one and patted the other’s back, then tucked his thumbs into his pockets. “John,” he said. 

John rose to his feet. “Now what do you want?” John asked. 

“Nothing. You’ve done what I wanted.” 

“Why did you bring me here? Isn’t this your house?” 

“I sent Ares to convey my thanks. She told me where she found you,” Santino said, his gaze steady. “Sleeping in a ruin.” 

“Wonder how that happened,” John bit out, though he couldn’t manage any real resentment. 

“I was within my rights to do that,” Santino said. He tucked his plush lower lip briefly against his teeth. “However, it was not my intention to make you destitute if that is what I have done.” 

John shook his head. One of the lies he’d told Helen was that he wasn’t rich. Bookbinding was not a profession that could feasibly make John as wealthy as he was, awash in blood-money that he left to fester and multiply in banks and managed investments. John had always been indifferent to money, but he had been taught in the Company how to use it, to prepare for the inevitable day when his body failed him, and he had to pay for medical expenses. John had been glad for that when Helen’s health insurance had proven inadequate to cover the extent of her illness and eventual palliative care. He was still comfortably well-off, a wealth that he would have gladly given up and more if he could turn time back. 

“I have apartments here and there. You may have one if you wish,” Santino said, after a pause. “I’ll transfer you the title. Obligation-free.” 

“No.” 

“Do you have anywhere else to go?” 

“No.” John had sold off the safehouses he had once owned when he had married Helen. There’d been no point in maintaining them. 

Santino huffed, irritated, an irritation that he visibly attempted to swallow. “I’m now part of the High Table, thanks to your efforts. I’m inclined to be generous. Do you want something from me, John? Your house rebuilt? A reasonable favour?” 

“No.” John no longer wanted anything from anyone. 

Santino scowled. Before he could speak, one of his dogs trotted back over to John, wagging its tail and snuffling John’s limp palm. Santino’s expression softened. He was more handsome now than he had been before, when John had first met him at the bar in the Continental over a decade ago. His coltish arrogance had been replaced with haughty grace, the grace of kings. Powerful men like Santino had once been John’s usual prey. 

“Orthrus likes you,” Santino said. 

“She’s friendly. Nice dog.” 

“Orthrus and Cerberus are Kugsha dogs, wolf hybrids. They belonged to a friend who didn’t have the time to give them the attention they need. To be fair, neither do I. My staff exercises them, but they’re not usually fond of people who aren’t me.” Santino glanced down at Cerberus, which huffed and tilted his head. At some gesture John couldn’t catch, Cerberus padded over with open reluctance, relaxing only when John didn’t try to touch him. “You like dogs,” Santino said.

“I guess.” John was more of an incidental dog owner. Before Daisy, he’d never owned an animal before.

“Pick one of the guest rooms. I’ll have someone bring clothes for you in your size. The dogs need at least two walks a day, long ones.” Santino strode away, heading for the stairs before John could refuse. John stared after Santino instead of walking out. 

“Your owner is a dick,” he told the Kugsha dogs. Orthrus’ jaws parted into a sharp-toothed grin.

#

Once Santino’s dogs realised John was their new caretaker, they forced him into a routine. Santino hadn’t been joking about his dogs needing a lot of work. John took to long jogs in the mornings, running until his lungs burned. That usually calmed them down until the late afternoon, at which point John usually played with them on the sprawling house grounds. The house had a private chef, but John often just asked for sandwiches. He’d eat them on the private beach, keeping an eye on the dogs chasing each other on the surf.

Days passed. Santino was often away, usually for weeks at a time—presumably handling the other clans in Italy. The hollow grief that had cored John out grew blunter along the edges as he became used to the days, as the dogs warmed slowly to him. John was working through a hotdog one evening on the sand when the pack looked sharply away from him and darted off, even Dog. Santino laughed moments after, saying something in Italian that John didn’t catch. John didn’t turn. Dog returned to John’s elbow, panting hopefully with his eyes fixed on the hotdog. The Kugshas returned at a more sedate pace, padding before their master. 

Santino had a long wool coat over his shoulders, the sleeves flapping loosely on the evening breeze. He smiled at John, a smile that was as considered as his clothes. “You could eat in the house.”

“Prefer the beach. It’s quiet.” 

“Do you like it here?”

“I guess,” John said. He didn’t dislike it. The house staff was unobtrusive and left him alone. The only real company John had were the dogs. Outside of the years he had lived as a lie, this was the most peace John had ever been given. John was conscious that he lived in this state of grace at Santino’s sufferance, but that made him feel no kinder toward Santino. The man was an ass. “Heard you annexed Aurelio’s chopshop.” 

“What about it?” Santino sounded amused. John glanced behind them. Ares was standing at a respectful distance, though she shot John a sharp smile. Security was peppered beyond Ares, mostly watching the water or the house. “Why,” Santino said, noticing the glance, “are you finally considering killing me? On behalf of your friend?” 

“No.” Aurelio had always known the risk of staying independent. He probably hadn’t resisted much when annexed. 

“Your house?” Santino asked. His drawl was playful, but his eyes were cold. 

“No.” 

“Didn’t it contain every memory of the life you had? I saw the photographs.”

John frowned up at Santino. “Are you trying to piss me off?” 

“Not particularly. Though you’re more exciting when you’re angry,” Santino said. He smiled at John’s patent disbelief. “All that focus and rage, turning you into something more than a man.” 

“Less,” John said. His consuming, uncontrollable anger always made him feel less human, not more. In the years he had lied to Helen, John had lived afraid of the temper he had once honed as a weapon, the deep wellspring of rage that could drive him past the limits of the human capacity for violence. 

Santino stroked Cerberus’ scruff instead of answering. The dog leaned his flank against his master’s thigh with joyous relief, begging for more attention that did not come. “Good work,” Santino said. He stepped away from the dogs, heading back to the house. Orthrus whined, disappointed, a disappointment that John wasn’t sure why he shared.

#

“Why didn’t you want to kill me?” Santino asked, a week after he stole a kiss from John and laughed as John pinned him to a wall for more.

Even this was calculated. The kiss was bait, though for this, John had been an indifferent victim. Sex had never held that much sway over John. After Santino finally noticed this, he’d been amused instead of annoyed, a fey and hungry amusement that had pulled John to bed. They’d cleaned up hurriedly in the shower, John panting, Santino chuckling as he pressed fresh marks over John’s skin with his teeth. They’d spent longer tangled in bed, skin to skin, trading kisses.

_I used to lie to my wife_, John wanted to say, as he kissed the arch of Santino’s throat and held him down as Santino cursed. _Even during something like this._ John would never have bruised Helen’s hips like this, never have held her down with his fingers curled over her throat and felt anything like this surge of bitter sexual satisfaction. Santino grinned sharply and pressed into John’s grip, his hands skating up John’s arms over the tattoos, the meanings of which he understood without having to ask. Santino already knew the stories behind John’s scars, behind the calluses on John’s palms, behind the ugly temper that sat temporarily cooled in his gut. Santino could kiss him like this, knowing exactly what John was, because Santino was just as tainted by the cruelty of their world as John. They were irredeemable, the vermin who lived in a world writ with violence as its primary language. 

Santino’s teeth flashed as he bit into John’s shoulders, growling as John pushed into his tight heat. _John_, Santino moaned, in a mockery of a lover’s whispered caress, _John_. They could not lie to each other because they had each other’s measure. John shuddered as he thrust, harder and harder until he was aching to come, close enough and yet needing more. Santino bit down over John’s mouth, breaking the skin. Blood pressed copper-bright between them, a currency that was as old as time. John buried himself a final time between Santino’s thighs with a snarl that Santino answered with a smirk. 

They lay spent on the sheets with Santino propped up on his elbows, the naked span of his back unmarked in the soft light. He repeated his question. “Why didn’t you want to kill me?” 

“What’s the point?” John asked. “Over a house?” 

“You killed Viggo and Iosef over a dog.” 

“That was different.” John had never loved the house. He did not love things like houses and cars, despite the rumours. If he’d loved his Mustang, he would not have used it as a weapon, wouldn’t have wrecked it to the point that only Aurelio’s genius could salvage it. 

“Hrmm.” Santino tickled his fingers over John’s shoulders, tracing the muscle. “I thought about having you killed. A preemptive strike.”

“Makes sense.” It wouldn’t have been the first time someone had tried something like that. “Why didn’t you?” 

“I know your reputation. I know what would happen if it failed, and the odds of it failing were high.” Santino angled himself closer. “You would’ve killed me for it. What would be the point, when you’ve done what I wanted?”

“Killing your sister,” John said. 

Santino looked away, his hands clenching briefly in the sheets. He did not wear regret in the pensiveness that stole over his face and did not answer. Had Santino lied to himself too? Once upon a time, when he told himself he loved his sister? Or recently, when he convinced himself that her death was necessary? The pensiveness fell away, just as quickly as it had come. Santino sat up, petting John’s shoulder with the same possessive caress that he usually cared to give to his dogs. He smirked as John understood, as John twisted to graze teeth over his knuckles.

**Author's Note:**

> twitter: @manic_intent  
my process, my prompt policy etc: manic-intent.tumblr.com


End file.
